


The Master and the Madness

by ElizabethHades



Category: North and South (UK TV), North and South - Ambiguous Fandom, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brendan Coyle - Freeform, Canon Continuation, Daniela Denby-Ashe, Domestic Fluff, Elizabeth Gaskell - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Kissing, Love, Marriage, Married Couple, Married Life, Married Sex, Mild Sexual Content, One Shot, Richard Armitage - Freeform, Romance, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25593379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethHades/pseuds/ElizabethHades
Summary: Six months after marrying the love of his life, John Thornton finds himself at a loss to explain her sudden change in behaviour towards him. A short, lightly-heated, fluffy one-shot of a turning point in John and Margaret's married life.
Relationships: Margaret Hale/John Thornton, Nicholas Higgins & John Thornton, Nicholas Higgins & Margaret Hale
Comments: 14
Kudos: 101





	The Master and the Madness

**Author's Note:**

> A fluffy little one shot I wrote while taking a small break from the angst of my other N&S story 'Foolish Passions'. Please let me know what you think...

Two weeks. It had been two weeks. 

Two weeks since he had been allowed to touch her. _Three_ weeks since he had been allowed to love her, with the tender passion she had favoured of late. _Four_ weeks since he had been permitted to claim her lips and her body with the wild abandon that had become natural between them. But it wasn’t as if he was keeping score…

John’s brow was furrowed in distraction as he trudged his way upstairs. He had stayed late at the mill once again, partly of necessity, and partly in apprehension. He did not understand what had brought about this coolness all of a sudden. 

He racked his brain to try and explain his current predicament. He loved his wife with at least every ounce of passion he had felt from the day he first set eyes on her, if not more. He was still unable to do anything but stare at her when he was in her presence, fearful that if he tore his eyes from her person for even a moment she might evaporate, taking his hopes and dreams with him. At times he pinched himself secretly, when taking in the gentle slopes of her sleeping form as she rested after their lovemaking, or slept on after he had risen to start his day. He still could not believe she was his. 

He had devoted every resource within his means to her comfort and happiness. He had showered her with jewellery and favours, until he realised that Margaret understood the language of love in an outpouring of action. So he dedicated himself to devising activities they could engage in together, and had watched in delight as his bride had opened up to him, like a flower in bloom, during the course of their walks, their discussions for improvements at the mill, their collection of articles for the poor, and the refurbishment of the mill house’s small garden. 

And she had returned his attentions, learning his own preferred means of receiving the love she had sworn to bear him. When he sought her out each night, coming to her with the single purpose of covering her again and again, as many times as she would allow, she had never denied him. On the contrary, the desperation with which he reached for her even sometimes as she slept only served to cement in her mind that although her husband was a man of a few words, he was not so frugal in finding other ways to communicate how much she meant to him. 

At times he feared he was too forceful, that the onslaught of touches, kisses and caresses that he subjected her to might overwhelm her, and had sought to encourage dialogue within the marriage bed. But Margaret had laughed, and cupped his cheek affectionately, assuaging his fears with kisses of her own and reassurances that she could not imagine his advances would ever be unwelcome. And she did seem to enjoy it, as far as he could tell. Time and time again she melted into his embrace, welcoming him to every inch of her and surrendering whatever part of herself it was that he wished to lay claim to.

Reaching the top of the stairs, John paused as he beheld the familiar oak door that lead to the Master’s chamber. 

_Master…_ he thought wryly, _there are no more masters here…_

He took a moment to rest his hand on the round, brass knob, steadying himself on the cool metal beneath his fingers. He was unsure what awaited him beyond the oak partition. As much as he hungered to see the wife from whom he had been separated all day, something writhed uncomfortably in the depth of his belly as he contemplated the possibility of being denied yet again. 

He slowly pushed the door open, with a light, single-knuckled rap of his finger to announce his entrance. Like a wayward schoolboy he stuck a head into the room, eyebrows raised, to ascertain the location, and temperament, of his beloved.

“Margaret, my pet?”

“John!” 

Seeing his reflection in the mirror as she sat at her vanity, she sprung from her seat and rushed towards him. Her eyes shone with unadulterated adoration as she pushed the door aside and tugged him gently by the hand into the room. 

John breathed a sigh of relief, and took a moment to take in the beauty of his wife’s face, as she beamed up at him, all warmth and softness. Slowly she draped her arms about his waist and pressed her head against his chest, comforted by his girth and the strong thrum of his heartbeat. He responded in kind, folding his arms around her and burying his face in the crown of her wild tresses, breathing in their soothing fragrance. 

They stood for a moment in their fond embrace, until the temptation of her generous form pressed against him began to take effect. Lifting his head, John caressed a purposeful thumb across her velvet cheek. With gentle pressure he coaxed her face up towards his own, and drank in the intoxicating sight of her plush, pink lips, parted as they were expectantly.

Cupping her cheek, he dipped his head to brush her lips gently with his own. Still conscious of her recent reticence, he did not want to startle her, or shatter this fragile intimacy between them. He could not bear the thought of celibacy tonight.

His hunger overwhelmed him as he felt her lips move against his own. Soft, supple and surrendering, she pressed against him, opening her mouth in invitation that he might taste his fill. Lost as he was in the headiness of the moment, he did not register as she slid both hands between them and pushed gently against his chest. 

He broke their embrace, studying her face, puzzled by the look he found there.

Margaret pulled away, her features scrunched up in displeasure. 

“Margaret, my love, what is it?”

“It is nothing…”

“It’s not nothing.”

He locked his arms around her waist, thus thwarting her attempts to withdraw. Once again. Without explanation.

“Darlin’ please… will you not tell me?”

Margaret sighed, looking away.

“It is just… eugh… kippers.”

“Kippers?” 

“Yes. You have eaten kippers.”

John cast his eyes about in recollection.

“Yes… yesterday morning… at breakfast…”

“Well their scent still clings to you. It is most unappealing.”

Margaret stepped back as John released his hold on her waist. His mind rushed through the events of the past two days, checking off the two or three times he had performed his ritual ablutions. He had developed an almost religious devotion to his personal hygiene since bringing Margaret into his house. His city might be polluted and its people unwashed, but he had determined that he would not risk any uncleanliness that might make him repellent to her. 

She turned to continue her preparations, and John sniffed about his person as best he could, raising his wrists to his nose and ducking his head to try ascertain the source of his offence. Smoke, a little sweat perhaps, and the lingering fragrance of where he had held her just moments ago. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Perhaps there was more to it than she was letting on. John frowned as the memory of the argument in his office from almost a fortnight ago, flashed into his mind. 

“Margaret, if you are still upset about our disagreement, that business with Porter, I would prefer that you told me plainly, rather than inventing some irrational pl…”

“Irrational?!” she turned around suddenly, her eyes flashing with an anger that fairly startled John in his boots. “ _Irrational_ , say you? Why is it that when a woman feels anything, or, heaven forbid, _expresses_ anything, there must be something of the irrational about it?!”

Taking up her hairbrush, she tugged it twice down the length of her voluptuous tresses, before brandishing it menacingly in his direction.

“I did not take you for one of those men who think such backwards things about women, John. To jump to the conclusion that some gentle, womanly sentiment of mine has been injured and that I am reduced to expressing my discontent by pointing out that you reek of breakfast foods!”

“But I… Surely you know… Darlin’ I…” he stammered as he reached lamely for her. The look in her eyes reduced him to a quivering pulp. He did not like it. Such weakness could hardly help matters. 

“Margaret,” he said more firmly, grasping for the remains of his self-control, “please, do not upset yourself so. I did not mean to offend. But I do not see how such a reaction is warranted, for so small a thing as my choice of words. I confess I do not know how to act, or what to do, when you behave like this. Perhaps if you would just calm down…”

“Calm down?”

John looked at her, as one looks at a deadly insect, uncertain as to how he had once again fallen into its trap.

“Calm… down?!”

“I did not mean…” He began, his arms raised in apologetic supplication.

“You did not mean what, John Thornton?! To accuse me of irrationality?! To dismiss me as overly emotional?! What’s next? Am I to be called _Hysterical?!”_

“Margaret, my dearest love, forgive me, please, I’m sure I did not mean to… to....”

“No John, forgive _me_ ! I’m sure I did not mean to do _this_!”

\---

It was a good many hours, and several tumblers of brandy later, that John Thornton lay by himself in the cold cot set up in his wife’s dressing room. He kneaded his palm into his left pectoral, where the silver hairbrush his wife had hurled at him had struck him with astonishing force for so small an object and a person. As to what exactly had brought on such a swift change in temperament, he was still at a loss.

He had pleaded just a moment more with her, before beating a hasty retreat out the door when she began to cast about wildly for some other missive to fling at him. God only knows what would have happened if she had noticed the letter opener that lay carelessly upon the small writing desk. He winced at the thought- who knew that Margaret Hale had such good aim?

The cot was a good deal too short to contain his entire length, so he shifted heavily onto his side, folding his legs up into a position he had not slept in since he was a boy. What had happened, what had he done to provoke his wife so? The mention of kippers seemed but a ruse- he had scrubbed himself and his teeth since, and taken a good many meals, so he did not pay that objection much heed.

He felt hot with frustration, and more spirits than he was accustomed to taking in one evening. Rolling onto his back once more, he unfurled his long limbs, hooking one leg over the wrought metal frame, and bending the other at a strange angle that left his knee jutting out in midair over the side of the cot. 

His uncomfortable sleeping arrangement guaranteed a sleepless night, and so he found himself at his leisure to revisit the events of the past few weeks. As he combed his way through both the mundane and the marvellous, two instances in particular presented themselves to him as possible explanations for his wife’s ill-humour.

The first was several weeks ago, before Margaret had begun to resist his advances. He had just concluded a successful dinner meeting with some important clients, and was in good spirits upon his return from the club that evening. His spirits soared to even greater heights when he entered their chamber to find his wife eagerly awaiting his return. She had exulted with him in the securing of such significant contracts, and had pressed her heartfelt congratulations onto his lips, as she leapt into his arms with wild enthusiasm. 

The night had held such promise, as she divested him of his clothes with an alacrity that left him thrilling and scarcely knowing what to do with himself. She had pushed him onto their bed, pouncing on him once again only to pepper every inch of his skin with fevered kisses and hallowed praise. 

John thought he had died and gone to heaven. 

As they had joined in excruciating sweetness, John had rolled her onto her back, resuming his habitual place between her thighs, her lithe limbs wrapped around him, like a primate finding refuge under the heft of a tree’s trunk. His large frame covered her completely, his right hand cushioning her head and holding him upright, and his left free to roam at will, and visit the soft slopes and voluptuous firmness of all his favourite parts of her. 

Instinctively his hand gravitated to the rounded curve of her breast. He began by teasing himself and her with the gentlest of caresses, before spreading his fingers to grasp at the tantalizing opulence there. His mouth followed, and after the lightest of brushes from his tongue, he closed both his hand and his lips on the ample, pink flesh, relishing both the taste and the sensation of its fullness.

Now, up until that point, such a gesture would have elicited a throaty moan, or a deep, breathy sigh, or some other form of encouragement from the lady in question. So as it was John was not prepared for the loud yelp of discomfort that followed, nor the swift blow to the head he received as Margaret sought to extract her breast from his painful ministrations. 

“My love?” he had asked, rubbing his boxed ear in bewilderment as he sat back on his haunches watching her scramble away from him.

“John, oh! You have hurt me!”

“Forgive me! You know I did not mean te’!”

He reached for her, but she shied away, cradling her own breast delicately.

“Margaret… my sweet? What can I do?”

He noticed the tip of her nose had turned pink as she shook her head.

“No, I am sorry husband. I am afraid I am in far too much discomfort to continue with our… erm…this... tonight.” She turned her head awkwardly to offer her lips in consolation. “I am proud of your success today, and everyday. But now I must take my rest.”

He accepted her kiss, his mood and other parts deflating as he registered her meaning. Tonight, by some unknown fault of his own, heaven was closed for business. 

From that night on, it was a wary tenderness, not passionate abandon, that coloured their couplings. John was careful, so very careful not to hurt her, and yet as time went on he began to suspect that it wasn’t just her chest that had developed an aversion to his touches. 

But it was the argument, their first disagreement truly deserving of the term, that John suspected was behind his wife’s rejection. 

It had followed a few days after the affair of the injured breast. Things had been tense between them, reminding John of the earliest days of their acquaintance when her mere presence had left him feeling awkward in every limb. He had been overjoyed to see his wife making her way across the mill yard at midday one day to meet him in his office, suggesting they take lunch together with the workers as they sometimes did. He had immediately seized upon this olive branch, and happily escorted his wife to the sup hall where the young Higgins girl had cooked up another of her stodgy wonders. 

He had signalled their arrival to Mary and secured their place, the two scruffy weavers only too happy to give the lovely Mistress their seat near the only window in the hall. Then he had sat, waiting as he knew he would have to, as his wife wound her way through the tables and benches, greeting this spinner and that, asking after somebody’s sickly mother and someone else’s aging cat. Her genuine concern for every person that had the fortune of crossing her path was a beautiful thing to behold, and Thornton did not even attempt to mask the smile that spread naturally across his face at the sight of it. 

Yet as she approached their table he could see something was amiss. Her eyes darted back and forth across the room, and when they did not find what they were looking for, she rose on the tips of her toes to peer out of the small window just above her husband’s head. 

“Have you lost something?”

“Hmm? No… I was just… oh thank you Mary!” 

With a beaming smile she accepted the fragrant repast set before the two of them. John reached over and arranged her cutlery for her, filling her tin cup with water from a pitcher as she tucked her ample skirts beneath her to take her place. He was always pleased when she dined with him in the sup hall. Her presence alone seemed to imbue the meager endeavour with the particular grace and finery that coloured the air around her. 

“John, where is Porter?”

John mirrored his wife as her eyes swept the room once more, although he knew the young mechanic was very likely nowhere near the mill. He had been sent home, as his apprenticeship at Marlborough Mills had come to an end, as had been agreed. The lad was a hard worker, and showed definite promise, and John had every mind to take him on once he completed his qualifications in the spring. He would be a welcome addition to the workforce, what with Deeming, his current mechanic’s ill health, and the increased activity in almost every area of the mill. 

“At home I would imagine,” he replied.

“Why is he not at work? Is he ill?”

“No,” he said, with a small huff of amusement, “at least not to my knowledge. I sent him home last week. He completed his hours with us, and we can’t afford the expense of two mechanics at the moment.”

John was on his third spoonful when the sound of a loud sob halted the utensil midair. He looked up to find his wife staring hopelessly down at her plate, still untouched, her face flushed and streaming tears as though the very end of the world was upon her. 

“Margaret!” he began, half-whispering as he reached across the table for her hand, “My love, what is it?”

Several heads were turned in concern, some of which were appraising the Master with consternation. What had he been doing to the poor girl?

“Margaret, please… will you not tell me?”

“What will become of him?!” she wailed, “so young, with so much promise! Out on the streets with no income of his own!”

John’s eyes widened in disbelief. Surely this display was not brought on by his mention of…

“Porter! Oh, poor Porter! And today of all days! He should be here! Earning his keep and eating his fill! Pot roast is his favourite oh!”

John rose, returning the disapproving looks he was receiving with one of his own formidable, silencing scowls. He helped his wife to her feet, and escorted her out the door, signalling to Mary that they would take their meal in his office.

He had barely closed the door behind them when she hurled her first accusation at him.

“How could you John?!”

“Excuse me?”

“How could you be so heartless!”

“Margaret...”

“Don’t you _‘Mar’gret’_ me!” she spat in a mock, darkshire accent, “How could you! Allow a cold calculation of savings and expense outweigh your sense of humanity! What will become of the lad? Out there, alone in this great, cruel world with not a penny to his name nor a pot roast to fill his belly…”

At this she broke down in tears once more, but now they were laced with anger, the soft despair of a moment ago somehow evaporated now that they were behind closed doors. John watched agape as his wife accused him of attending to the demands of his bank account over the duty of his heart, of having neglected his moral duty in employing the boy in the first place, of indifference towards the poverty and starvation of others. 

He was given no quarter to defend himself on any of these counts, neither to point out that he _had_ promised to hire the lad once he had qualified, nor that young Porter himself was from sturdy lower-middle-class stock, and very likely much better fed and more comfortably housed than most of his hands.

His only rebuttal had been to request that she not upset herself so. Her response had left him even more mystified.

“I cannot speak with you, John, when you are like this! We will discuss this later, when you are more calm.”

With that she had swept out of the room, leaving her husband completely confused in her wake. Come the day’s end, he had rallied his spirits for another battle, but to his great bewilderment she was as gentle as a dove, and sought nothing but his company and tender embrace for the rest of the evening.

It had not gone unnoticed, however, that they had not made love since. 

Realising he had lost all sensation in his left leg, John sat up in bed. The smallest hint of the impending dawn, recognisable only to those used to rising before the sun, was creeping into the small room. John scrubbed his face with his hands. If he was to go without sleep he might as well make the most of it.

He dressed quickly and padded out of the room, creeping past his wife’s sleeping form. He stopped a moment to look down at her, his heart swelling in adoration as he took in the gentle contours of her features. The greying light shaded her face with a pleasant roundness, but he also noted the dark circular shadows that underscored her eyes. She seemed exhausted, even in repose. John felt a pang of guilt in knowing that he was probably the cause of her tiredness. 

He arrived at the Mill determined to put the unexpected extra few hours he had to good use. Perhaps, if he came home early enough, they might go for a walk. If the weather kept they might even venture as far as the old Norman cathedral that lay just beyond the river. It was a challenging path, but Margaret was always glad of the exercise, keen walker that she was. It had been some time since they had ventured outside of the city. Perhaps a change of scenery would prove just the tonic his wife needed. 

He worked through the lunch hour and was going over some figures with Higgins, recently promoted to foreman, when a gentle knock interrupted them. His eyes snapped to the door in instant recognition of the only person who would request entry so delicately. Higgins also looked up, but was distracted by the curious look of anxiety that flashed across the Master’s countenance. What was he looking so worried for? Surely he knew it was Miss Margaret...

Higgins had noticed that the Master had been out of sorts for a while now. Sleep-deprived, clearly; irascible with his workers and irritable with his foremen. Barely half a year into married life, and to a woman for whom he had so blatantly pined for so long, it didn’t make any sense. Higgins knew Thornton had come to consider him less of an employee and more of a friend, but the intimacy between them was not so great as to allow him to explicitly ask the Master what was bothering him. 

Stranger still, the master flashed his foreman a questioning look, as if seeking his approval before clearing his throat and uttering a gravelly ‘ _come._ ’ What on earth was wrong with the man?

Higgins was relieved to see a bright smile break across the Master’s face in response to his wife’s arrival. She greeted them both warmly, surprising the gruff Darkshireman with a peck on the cheek and an affectionate squeeze on his arm- a gesture usually reserved for abrupt departures from Milton or other such occasions. For a while they chatted, as she set out the scones and jam she had packed as a small repast for her husband, but of which she was clearly determined that he too should partake. As she sliced and buttered the small buns, anointing each one with a generous dollop of raspberry jam, the men resumed some of their discussion, stopping only to thank her when she handed each their portion.

“Oh, is there any felicity in life greater than this?”

The two men looked up, rendered speechless by both her unusual outburst and the guttural sob that accompanied it. 

“Two men, two of the greatest I have known, once sworn enemies and now, united for a singular purpose! What a beautiful sight it is to behold both your heads bent together, two minds working almost as one!”

She held her hand clasped to her breast as she glanced lovingly between both of their squirming expressions. Suddenly she reached out, extending a hand to each, visibly startling them both. Warily, they took it.

“You are both so precious to me. I count myself most fortunate to have you both in my life. Nicholas, John, you are truly the best of men!”

For a moment they sat in a silent, awkward triangle of bemused faces and clasped hands. John, sensing Higgins’ confusion, and fearful of the changeability of his wife’s mood, broke with their installation first. Lifting his wife’s hand, which was uncharacteristically clammy, to his lips, he thanked her for her, er, kind words.

“And such a lovely spread, love. I shall try to be home early tonight. As you can see, Higgins and I have quite a lot to be getting on with…”

Her smile faded and in its place, an injured pout materialised. She snatched her hands back to herself, as if she had been caught touching some forbidden thing. When she spoke, her voice wavered, thick with tears that she seemed to have developed quite a talent for producing at a moment’s notice.

“Oh, forgive me! I am embarrassing you! I thought I was always welcome here, but it appears I am… I was… Nicholas…”

With a curt nod of her head she swept out of the room, sobbing loudly. Both men looked after her, one in amused curiosity and the other, in forlorn desperation. 

Feeling obliged to account for his wife’s rude departure, even to a close friend such as Higgins, John cast about for some semblance of an explanation. 

“You will have to forgive Margaret,” he began, “she has been quite… tired lately.”

He punctuated his sentence with a downward sigh, drawing Higgins’ gaze back towards him, his eyes twinkling mirthfully as he pieced things together in his mind.

“‘Tis only t’be expected, in ‘er condition.”

John looked up. Was Higgins privy to some confidence of which he was unaware? Was Margaret so unhappy, so untrusting of him that she had preferred to elect Higgins over her own husband as her confidante?

Endeared by the master’s furrowed brow, he continued. Poor wretch! 

“T’were the same with my Beth, all three times. Weren’t a day tha’ went tha’ I scarce put m’foot in the door before I were set upon by ‘er ragin’ like a wild wench, or cryin’ like a babe about summat. Dint last too long as far as I recall…”

He studied the master for any glimmer of understanding. When none was apparent on the gormless face that stared back at him, he pressed on with a roll of his eyes, leaning closer over the desk to make sure he was understood.

“If I recall correctly, by th’ time the’ feel th’ babe’s first movement, the worst is behind ye’, at least ‘til th’ birth. Then, ‘tis upto th’ will o’ God.” 

“Ah... yes.”

Higgins shook his head. After a moment’s silence the men resumed their discussion, the working and reworking of ideas and figures continuing uninterrupted until Thornton stopped mid sentence, dropping his empty quill to the floor as his face snapped up in the direction of the Mill house. In one swift motion he rose and rushed to the door, reaching it in barely two strides, and neglecting to put on his coat or give any explanation for his sudden departure. It did not matter, in fact Higgins seemed most amused by his delayed reaction. He let out a throaty chuckle as he reached across the desk to polish off the abandoned scone on the Master’s plate. 

“Margaret!” cried John, as he crossed into the Mill house. “Margaret, pet? Where are you?”

“I am here.” replied a small, tear-filled voice from the parlour.

He was by her side in no time, and gathered her off the small settee and into his arms, pressing kisses into her neck and hair. 

“John? What is it?! Put… oh my… put me down!”

“Oh Margaret! My Margaret! Do you not see?”

“I do not see anything, except the room spinning about me. Put me down this instant!”

Carefully, he obliged, setting her slowly down on her feet. She pulled away far enough to look him in the eye, confused by his exuberance and uncharacteristic gentleness.

“Margaret, tell me love, could it be… I mean, might you… could it be possible that you are... with child?”

Her round face contracted for a moment as she did a few quick calculations in her head.

“Yes… yes… why yes! John! That is it! That must be it! I _have_ missed my courses! And I have been feeling so very odd lately…”

_And acting it,_ John neglected to add, very wisely. 

“Oh John! A baby! A babe of our own, that is half you half me! Oh I can scarce contain my joy!”

He gathered her back in his arms as gently as he could, but could not help himself, giving into the temptation to spin her around like a small child. He set her down on her feet, and ducked his head to look her deep in the eyes. 

“How I love you, my Margaret! You have given me everything, and now you offer me a child of my very own.”

He cupped her face and pressed his lips against hers, pouring his adoration into his deepening kiss. 

“What can I do to show you how much you mean to me, my darlin’ girl?”

“Well, to start with,” she began, tugging at the hands that held her face, “you can release me.”

His brow furrowed, but he did as he was told, his face a picture of disappointment.

“Do not look so forlorn,” she bit out between clenched teeth, backing away from him towards the door, “my love for you is unaltered. It is just… this child… all that spinning… I think I am going to be sick!”

  
  



End file.
